Marking territory.

Zoe’s POV

I wasn’t overthinking. It wasn’t just me. Arman had definitely been offended by my words.

It was two weeks after our first encounter. I had not attended any physical meetings since that first day because M.J. handled most of the logistics while I tried to settle in.

Today was our first day of shooting. During the week, I had met most of the crew individually; M.J. made me go around and meet everyone for words of luck and advice. I kept meeting more and more famous people, and my self-esteem was hanging by a very thin thread. In this sector, I was nobody. I didn’t have parents that everyone admired and wanted to be like. I had no experience. I had nothing.

The worst part was the role they wanted me to play—the same one M.J. promised everyone I would "destroy." I was supposed to be a city girl, a woman who had proven herself fit for a world governed by the survival of the fittest: Brenda Cox. Hair as straight as sin, wrapped in a perfect ponytail, always dressed in corporate attire with a hint of sexiness, wearing the perfect pencil skirt and six-inch heels with tips like nails.

This would have been easy for another girl, but not for me. I had spent the last seven years of my life wearing scrubs—the freest pants humanity has ever known—matched with a pair of Crocs. I didn’t even own a single pair of heels. And now, these people wanted me to wear stilettos and a pencil skirt and act like I was born in them.

“No negative thoughts, Zo.”

I looked up to see M.J. “Hey.” I gave him a weak smile.

“You’re going to do just fine. Don’t forget what we practiced,” he reminded me.

I gave a small nod. M.J. had made me spend the past ten days wearing various kinds of badass heels, and now I owed it to him to do well.

“And... Action!” the director screamed, and just like that, I was in another world.

“I will not leave until you listen to me, Mr. Sanders!” I put all my frustration into those words. M.J. had taught me that the best actors didn’t act; they *became* their assigned character and lived it. So, from now until this movie was over, I was Brenda Cox, and my life depended on whether William Jr. Sanders listened to me or not.

“You’re the one not listening, Miss Goody Two-Shoes. My name is Zain. Zain Blade. And if you want me to give you a listening ear, you’d have to address me correctly!” Arman hissed.

I wanted to pause the moment and bask in it. M.J. was right; the man before me was not, in any way, Arman. It was Zain—Zain Blade. But I couldn't stop, because the scene had to continue.

“If I call you... that name, will you listen to me?” I asked, a little breathless, just as the script required. Playing breathless wasn’t hard when one was wearing heels and trying to keep up with a man on a horse.

“There’s only one way to find out, ma’am.” Arman shrugged. How did he do it? He expressed irritation, boredom, and anger with just his body language and his tone—even his accent had changed. I guess it came with years of experience.

“Z... Zain.” I said the name as if I were calling a little child who had sold his soul to the demon of naughtiness. “Why don’t you come down from that horse and let’s talk like ad—”

The words died in my throat as I felt my shoe sink into a semi-solid substance. I had almost forgotten this part of the script. Cow dung. “What the fuck!” I shrieked. That shriek was real, because those shoes were Louis Vuitton originals.

Arman burst into laughter. “Looks like Goody Two-Shoes has been officially welcomed to the ranch. I think I’ll talk to you now.” He was off the horse and on his feet in one sleek movement. I wondered if he had always been good with horses or if he’d learned for the movie.

“Get this filth OFF my shoes!” I screeched. My heart actually ached for the designer leather.

Arman snorted. “It’s actually the other way around. You get your shoes off the manure.”

I wanted to cuss at him, but I bit the words back. “Help me,” I pleaded. I forced humility into my tone when, deep down, I was tempted to rub the filth on him. “Please.”

The plea seemed to please him. His eyes glowed with pride as he dropped to one knee. “Didn’t realize I’d be doing this so soon,” he joked. “We only just met.”

I bit back another curse.

“You’ll have to remove your foot from the shoe if you don’t want to get the manure on your skin. Here, you can place your foot on my hand.”

I frowned. Something was wrong. That wasn’t in my script. Not to mention, he was on my left instead of my right. I bit back a protest and obeyed, sliding my foot out of the shoe and placing it on his hand.

Only for my foot to sink directly into another pile of dung.

“HOW DARE YOU!!!” I had no idea my voice could go that loud. The horror on my face was definitely not scripted.

Arman burst into hearty laughter, falling back into character. “Welcome to my ranch, Miss Cox. Need I remind you? You are on my turf.”

The annoying part was that the director loved it. She didn’t mind that he had deviated from the script for a few minutes. The crew loved it, too. Everyone kept reminiscing about my scream and laughing.

But I knew deep down that Arman had done it on purpose. He was claiming territory. He was marking me.

I wouldn't accept it. The battle lines had been drawn.